Don't Leave Me
by Wholockian276962628
Summary: When John is shot- again- he is nearly killed, but an someone, whose face he never sees, gets to him in time to save his life. You technically never learn who it is, but it's hardly difficult to guess...


John Watson walked across the street on his way back to the new apartment-there was no way he could manage in 221B, not now-thinking it was just an ordinary day. But then it happened.

He barely had time to notice the glint of light from the top of one of the tall office buildings, out of the corner of his eye, before a sudden pain shot through him, and someone knocked him to the ground. That person certainly saved his life, but they were not quite fast enough to spare him completely. The bullet that had missed his heart buried itself into his shoulder, starting a dangerously rapid flow of his blood out onto the sidewalk. It was a searing pain like a white hot knife, and within a few moments the world had gone dark.

* * *

When John came to, the first thing he saw was the green-tinted ceiling tile of a room in a hospital. The faint beeping noise of a heart rate monitor drifted to him from one corner, and the sterile smell that invariably accompanied all hospitals in existence stung his nostrils. The light of a noon sun seeped in through the window, spilling across a sign that read "Please Do Not Move" above a line of chairs, presumable for visitors to sit in. Like anyone would be visiting him.

It was all too familiar to John: lying in a hospital bed, alone and confused, with a bullet wound in his left shoulder. He really did have terrible luck, or maybe some higher power just hated him, though that seemed unlikely. Either way, it had hardly been a very good couple of months for him. First his life reached a point at which he almost wondered how it _could_ go on, and then it almost _didn't_.

A nurse, glancing in through the open door on her way down the busy hall outside, noticed him lifting his head to look around. She made a quick detour over to him, did something to the IV attached to his writs, and left. He soon fell back asleep.

* * *

It was dusk when he opened his eyes again. A deep amber light, the remnants of a setting sun's glow, cast shadows around the room. The door was closed, now, so that the staff could go on working with the lights on without disturbing any of the sleeping patients, and a tiny sliver of light was coming in from beneath the door. John didn't notice any of this, however.

A chair had been pulled from the line of chairs that weren't supposed to be moved, and a tall figure sat in it just beside his bed, looming over him. His eyes adjusted slightly to the lights, but even when he could see, he didn't believe it.

Sherlock looked down at him with worried eyes; concern was something John had never before seen on Sherlock's face, and he would not have though it suited the cold, indifferent detective, except that it was concern for him. Upon seeing that John was awake, Sherlock leaned down, cupped his hand at the side of John's face, and pressed his mouth to John's. All at once, John's head was filled with such a combination of confusion and excitement and just about every emotion a person could possibly have that it clouded his mind, and it was all he could do to simply stop thinking.

He reached up the hand of his uninjured arm to tangle his fingers in Sherlock's dark hair, pulling the other man closer to him, and opened his mouth slightly, catching Sherlock's upper lip between both of his. Sherlock moved his hand back to hold John's neck and pull him even closer, and then just pulled away and moved the chair back, to continue watching him with the compassion that he had never before felt for another person. Soon, whatever sedative they had given John kicked in again, and after that strange and incredibly sudden moment, he dropped back into sleep.

* * *

The next morning, DI Lestrade and Sally Donovan arrived to speak to him about what had happened. It wasn't strictly their division, but they had requested the case, for him. He told them everything he remembered, about what he'd seen in the moments before and the stranger who had saved him, but it wasn't much. As they were organizing their mental notes and whispering strategies, he drew a deep breath and asked, "I don't suppose anyone's heard from him..?"

"Who?" Lestrade asked after a rather long and awkward pause.

"Who else would I be asking about right now?" Donovan and Lestrade exchanged a glance, and he quickly added, "No, I know that. It's just..." he trailed off, and sighed to himself, "Oh, I suppose it must have been a dream. Seemed real enough, but then they always do, don't they? Never mind." They both looked at him a little strangely, but they nodded and left.

John stared up at the ceiling and let out a long breath. A dream. It had to be. Just a dream.

At that moment, a noise came from the little bedside table. He looked over to see his phone, which was odd; he didn't think it was in the room, but maybe someone had left it for him and he hadn't noticed. He struggled to reach over and pick it up:

_From: Restricted number_

_He's back, and he's after you. It's my fault.  
I'm sorry._

* * *

It was the day they finally let him out of the hospital, and John limped home, depending on his cane more than ever; knowing a limp was psychosomatic didn't make it go away. When he opened the door to his flat and hobbled inside, it almost seemed that he'd never been away. Not that that was precisely a good thing; he didn't want this life, but what other life was there for him, now?

He lazily dropped his coat onto the floor and was about to step into the bedroom when something stopped him dead in his tracks. What was it? Something was wrong. Without moving an inch, he thought his way back to the door. Suddenly he realized- there was a long blue scarf draped over the arm of one of the chairs in the living room. He spun around, and sure enough, there stood Sherlock, smirking at him like nothing was at all out of the ordinary, but they both knew how it really was.

As John stepped forward, Sherlock wrapped his arms around him and pulled him in, crushing their mouths together. He kissed John passionately as John ran his hands through the younger man's raven colored curls and tried to pull the two of them closer together, despite the fact that a sheet of paper could not have fit between them. It seemed like an eternity before they finally pulled away, and he buried his head into Sherlock's shoulder.

"Don't leave me again," he pleaded.

"Never."

* * *

**Author's Note: I stopped it here, without letting Sherlock explain to John exactly what had happened and why, because it's just such a perfect ending. For anyone who's still confused, Moriarty didn't die, and he is after the people who are close to Sherlock once again, because he has learned that Sherlock faked his suicide.**


End file.
